Plea
by V.M. Bell
Summary: If things had not changed, then he would not be here, waiting in a queue of other private citizens for his turn.


**Plea**

Draco remembers a time his father was welcomed into these very corridors by men of power -- for Lucius Malfoy had been a man of power in his own right -- and intimidated them all with a single, appraising glance, and they complied without further thought or deliberation. That was the way things were, an unquestioned stasis of power and influence, but things are different now, as the world has not yet tired of reiterating, things have changed. Draco is tired of these generalities because they are the truth, awful and irreversible, because, if things had not changed, then he would not be here, waiting in a queue of other private citizens for his turn.

He cannot count the number of hours his fingers have been playing with the brim of his hat when doorknocker announces his name in a tired voice. He rises to his feet and, casting a look behind him at the nameless faces around him, all with their own grievances to air, and walks to the door. There, the doorknocker spits out a slip of paper, which Draco immediately snatches. _Desk 4_, it reads.

Draco opens the door, revealing a seemingly endless parade of identical wooden desks, each one staffed by a representative from the Department of Magical Enforcement and a corresponding complainant. The numbers of the desks are hanging in the air, and it is not difficult for him to locate the one he needs. The process should be brief, he thinks; after all, the answer for which he is looking should be simple.

From inside the room, he hears a voice call, "Next, please!" and follows it to desk number four. He is startled to find a familiar grimace studying him.

"Granger," he says. "What are you doing here? I thought you worked in a different office in the department."

She inclines her head. "I do, Draco. I really shouldn't be here, but I volunteered to take on your case when you brought it to the department -- "

"You?" He stares at her. "You were the one handling it?"

"Yes, me. I thought if I -- if I used my influence, then I could -- "

Draco makes an expression of disgust. "Used your influence? Why would you ever have reason to help me with this?"

"Because, evil though they were, they -- well, they redeemed themselves, didn't they, by the end?"

"Your testimony helped condemn them," he hisses, hands balling to his fist as he stands up.

"Which is why I had to fix it, Draco, or at least try my hardest," she retorts, composure intact. "It was -- it was chaotic, after the war, but we can be levelheaded about things again. And, if you wouldn't mind, can you please sit down?"

He glares at her for an instant before complying. Sighing, he sags against the back of his chair and stares at his knees. "Well, I suppose I should thank you," he says after a silence, "for helping."

"And I suppose I should apologize for -- for what I did."

"We're even, then." She nods, and Draco can tolerate no more these useless words, so he lifts his head to look at her and asks her. "Will my parents be released from Azkaban?"

He is shocked to find tears ringing Granger's eyes as she produces a scroll of parchment and lays it tenderly on the desk. It sits between them for a moment, wordless, before Draco retrieves it and breaks the seal. His eyes skim past the almost unreadable script that details the legal ramifications of his request because he only needs that one answer he has been seeking for years --

" 'Denied'?" he whispers. He looks back at Granger, who is openly crying.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she says. "I looked up every law the Ministry has about commuting life sentences, and I even tried to write some of my own, but -- I'm so sorry, Draco, I really am," she says again.

"Are you sure that -- " He swallows. "Maybe -- maybe some money or some public apology -- wouldn't that work?" But she can only shake her head, and Draco grows angry, crushing the scroll in his hand. "Granger, they're my parents! You had no right to take them away from me!"

But, still, she says nothing, and, although it is all he can do to not cause a serious disturbance in the middle of the workday, perhaps Draco has always known that his efforts would have ended like this, their quiet turning away at the hands of the great impersonal machine of the Ministry of Magic. So he breathes, once, twice, replaces his hat on his head, and stands up, straightening his coat.

"Draco -- " Granger begins, rising, but he turns away before she can say anything else and leaves.

As he passes through the door, he hears Granger call for the next person in line.


End file.
